


Losing My Religion

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst, Capital Punishment, Character Death, Confessions, Crimes & Criminals, Gen, Priests, Prison, Religious Guilt, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xavi is a prison chaplain who often loses faith, mainly after meeting prisoners on the death row. Andrés is the prison‘s warden who restores his faith, or at least tries to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing My Religion

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as [Death, and death alone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4485295/chapters/10196599), but in the independent Catalonia, which in this fic is the Republic of Catalonia. 
> 
> I wrote this during an especially boring lesson of Pedagogy, so don’t judge.

**~ I ~**

  
“The execution is set up for tomorrow at dawn,” Andrés says in the neutral voice that Xavi already associates with his person. Andrés takes things as they come. If he didn’t, he’d most likely go crazy within months in this place. “Firing squad, nice and quick. I’m glad for the boy. Wouldn’t want him to suffer unnecessarily.”  
  
Xavi nods, despite not really feeling like there is anything he should approve of. Their steps resonate between the cold walls of the prison. This wing is so quiet that Xavi can hear his cassock rustle with every move he makes.  
  
Andrés stops in front of a metal door and beckons the two guards accompanying them. Then he turns to Xavi. “He’s never been violent or anything, but just in case, the guards will be right behind the door,” he says.  
  
Xavi nods. He trusts Andrés with his life almost as much as he trusts his God. He knows that if he’s to meet a dangerous criminal, Andrés will never let him inside the cell unaccompanied, and will never leave the prisoner unchained. Although he fears no evil, Andrés fears it enough for him.  
  
Xavi walks in and what he sees stuns him so much that he almost overhears the door closing behind him. He is looking at an angel, a cherub descended from heaven, a baroque church statue that somehow came to life. He’s heard his story from Andrés, he knows his crime – killing a police officer during one of the riots that so often occur on the streets these days.  _Most likely it wasn’t entirely intentional,_  Andrés said,  _it seems like he panicked and fired blindly. The court didn’t want to hear much of that, though. They don’t decide in favor of those who attend demonstrations and have things to say about the government in general._  
  
The boy jumps up and Xavi startles, but then he realizes that it was out of respect. The boy didn’t mean to harm him. Xavi clears his throat. “Sergi Roberto?” he half-asks in a more official tone than he usually uses, a reminder that he is in fact on an official duty here, as much as he is on a spiritual one. “You requested my presence.”  
  
The boy nods and then sits down on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his flaxen hair nervously. “I just... I don’t know what to begin with.”  
  
“Confessing is never a bad idea,” Xavi smiles encouragingly.  
  
“What if I’m innocent?” Sergi whispers and looks at the chaplain.  
  
“And are you innocent?”  
  
The boy holds Xavi’s eyes for a moment, and Xavi is ready to believe him, ready to accept that the judges made a mistake. But then Sergi casts down his eyes and shakes his head. “No, I’m not,” he says. “I did kill him. I regret it, but I did it. I deserve this.”  
  
Xavi stays silent for a while, waiting for something more when he understands that this was it, this was the whole confession. He clears his throat. “Do you want to pray now, son?”  
  
Sergi shakes his head again. “I’d like you to read to me,” he says and settles on the bed. “From the Bible.”  
  
“Anything specific?” Xavi asks, feeling somehow more at ease, flipping through the pages of his worn Bible.  
  
“Something you’re supposed to read when you’re afraid, perhaps.”  
  
Xavi nods, searching more in his memory than in the actual book, and starts reading the psalm of David. “...even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” Glancing up momentarily he notices that Sergi has closed his eyes, a hand splayed on the bed, right in the middle of the space between him and Xavi, like Xavi is supposed to take it. “...And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”  
  
When he’s done reading, the boy is curled up on the bed, his face looking peaceful and almost too young. He doesn’t wake up when Xavi closes the Bible and gets up from the chair, nor when he knocks on the door as quietly as he possibly can.  
  
For some reason, Xavi’s heart aches when he leaves the cell.  
  


* * *

  
He stands in the yard when they lead him out. The boy is pale, but his face looks reconciled and calm. When Xavi holds up the cross, he kisses it. Only when the the blindfold is placed over his eyes, the boy’s chest starts raising and falling rapidly, but it doesn’t take long from there.  
  
It’s not the first execution Xavi sees. It usually doesn’t get to him, but that night, he dreams of the boy. He isn’t actually sure if it’s a dream or if he’s seeing a ghost, because he can’t tell if he’s awake or not. The boy is sitting on his bed, the moonlight giving him a strange, silver halo. He looks alive, and then not really.  _Pray for me, Father, my soul is heavy_ , he says.  
  
Xavi wakes up drenched in cold sweat, clutching his rosary beads in his hand.  
  


* * *

  
“Luckily your faith doesn’t ban you from having a bit of this,” Andrés says, pouring liquor in a small glass. “You clearly need it.”  
  
His office isn‘t much different from the rest of the prison, it‘s purely functional, the walls are undecorated and painted dull grey, the chairs uncomfortable and the shelves hold only files with documents and law books. There is a dying plant on the window pane that Andrés clearly hasn‘t watered in a long time. The only colors in the room are those of the Catalonian flag hanging on the wall behind Andrés’ desk.  
  
Xavi downs the liquor and looks at the warden. There is something akin to worry in his friend‘s face. “I feel like it was wrong to do it,” Xavi whispers. “As you said, he just did a stupid thing...”  
  
“Stupidity is no excuse for a crime,” Andrés says thoughtfully.  
  
“I know,” Xavi sighs.  
  
“We are not judges. The sentences are read out elsewhere, we only carry them out here. Well,  _I_  do. You try to make it easier for both sides.”  
  
The smell of the liquor is still almost palpable in the otherwise odorless room. Xavi shuffles in the chair. “I never imagined I would be spending my days doing this when I became a priest,” he says bitterly. “Sometimes I pray for all of them to be non-believers, I pray for them not requesting my presence.”  
  
Something melts in Andrés’ face and he reaches over the table to touch Xavi’s hand. “I know,” he says. “Don’t think that it makes me happy. It wasn’t like this when I got this job either. But with the war, it’s natural that those things happen, that the rules are harsher to prevent people from betraying the country. But every war ends eventually.”  
  
“I pray for it to end soon,” Xavi nods.  
  
“When I actually pray, I pray for the same thing,” Andrés smiles.  
  
  


**~ II ~**

  
The days fly by. Xavi meets people, hears out confessions, prays, delivers sermons. The situation in the country gets a bit calmer, so he doesn’t have to give last rites for a while. The boy’s ghost stops visiting him. Still, Xavi never forgets to pray for his soul before going to sleep, just in case.  
  
When Andrés calls him up personally instead of leaving the pleasure to one of his subordinates, Xavi knows the reason. Suddenly he feels like running away, his mind becomes restless and he’s not sure if he will be able to remember a single prayer.  
  
“Murder,” Andrés explains in his usual dry voice. “Nothing to do with the war this time. Seems like the youngsters have finally learned their lesson.”  
  
“Too bad the state hasn’t.”  
  
Andrés just shrugs. Reintroducing the death penalty doesn’t bother him as much as it should according to Xavi. For Xavi, the new Republic of Catalonia was supposed to be a step forward. Instead, in his opinion, it took several steps back.  
  
The metal door opens smoothly and the guards let Xavi in. He takes a deep breath before entering, and another one when he sees the young man sitting on the bed. “Rafael Alcântara do Nascimento,” he says, suppressing the memories in his head. “You requested my presence.”  
  
The boy’s black hair falls in his eyes when he lifts his head. “I didn’t. Only Mr. Iniesta was so tired of me requesting people’s presence that he said the last person I could talk to were you.”  
  
 _And he omitted to mention that to Xavi._  
  
“All right,” Xavi says carefully, sitting on the chair. The way it screeches makes even the tiniest hair on the back of his neck stand up. “What do you have to say, then?”  
  
The boy doesn’t miss a beat. “I didn’t do it, you have to believe me!”  
  
Xavi sighs deeply. “Even if I believe you... what I think is of no importance. What God thinks is important, and then what the judges think.”  
  
“But I can swear it to you, I can swear it on the cross!”  
  
Before Xavi can stop him, the boy puts a hand on the cross hanging on a chain around Xavi’s neck, touching Xavi’s chest with the fingers that don’t fit on the metal arms. Xavi shivers.  
  
“I swear,” the boy says, his black eyes boring into Xavi’s. “I didn’t kill anyone. I’m not a criminal. I don’t want to die. You have to help me.”  
  


* * *

  
Xavi runs in Andrés’ office without actually waiting to be invited to come in. “Andrés,” he starts, catching his breath. “The boy...”  
  
“I know, I know,” Andrés says and waves his hand in the air. “He insists that he’s innocent. His lawyer appealed about three times, I believe, but was dismissed every time. He asked the president for a pardon or whatever, but I’ve received no call from the president’s office so far, so nothing changes for now. I hope that I answered all your questions.”  
  
“But what if it’s true? What if he’s really innocent? You have to stop it until...”  
  
“I cannot stop anything,” Andrés says softly, looking at Xavi like he’s talking to a delirious child. “And trust me, my friend, of those who say that they are innocent, hardly any actually tell the truth.”  
  
“What if one of them does?”  
  
Andrés shrugs and looks at Xavi over the table. “The last person who can stop this is the president. If Josep Guardiola calls my office and tells me to cancel the execution, I will do it, and gladly. But otherwise, I can’t do anything. We follow civil law here, not religious.”  
  


* * *

  
The next morning, Xavi catches himself prolonging the last rites and the final prayer, giving the mundane justice a few extra seconds to fix their mistakes. But he cannot do it forever and the officer of the squad is already tapping his foot impatiently.  
  
When Xavi lifts the cross, the boy moves to kiss it, but instead his eyelids flutter and his knees give in and Xavi barely catches him.  _Enough, let’s get this over with_ , someone says and Xavi has never felt so helpless in his life.  
  
The president doesn’t call.  
  


* * *

  
The routine engulfs Xavi as soon as he meets yet another prisoner, and then another, and another. Some talk to him just for the sake of talking to someone. Some confess sins that are not even worth confessing only not to have to confess the major ones. Xavi patiently hears out all that during the days, and spends the nights wondering if he is not slowly going crazy.  
  
He knows something happened when he enters Andrés’ office and smells the bitter odor of the liquor Andrés keeps in the very back of his drawer. It brings back unpleasant memories, and the fact that now it’s Andrés holding the glass makes Xavi’s stomach make a flip.  
  
“What happened?” he asks carefully and sits on the chair opposite to Andrés.  
  
“You were right,” Andrés tells the grey wall behind Xavi’s shoulder. “You were right, my friend.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
Andrés lets out a short laugh that sounds offensively loud, and pushes a file to Xavi. “This came from the court,” he says. “That boy. Your boy.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Xavi says, even though he actually does. He’s afraid to understand.  
  
“The court exonerated him. He was, indeed, innocent. And you were right.”  
  
Andrés pours himself another glass and looks at Xavi who is just looking at him, too frightened to even move.  
  
“How?” he whispers finally. “How did they...”  
  
“Miscarriage of justice,” Andrés shrugs. “It shouldn’t happen, but it does. Nothing we can do.”  
  
Xavi stands up, suddenly feeling the urge to hit Andrés in the face even though the fault is not his. It’s his face, the fake coolness and resignation, the smell of alcohol that are so repulsive that Xavi feels like he has to leave the room immediately. “What gives me at least a bit of hope is that no miscarriage of justice can occur in Heaven,” he says and bangs the door behind him.  
  
  


**~ III ~**

  
Xavi enters the room and turns his head to look at the guard that remains standing at the door. There is enough space between him and the table where the prisoner is sitting to keep the conversation private enough, but he is ready to intervene at any moment. Andrés’ precautions. Although the length of Sergio Busquet’s criminal record would make any warden take those precautions, and the contents of it would make any priest pray to God for enough strength to hear out this confession.  
  
“Sergio Busquets,” he says, trying to look anywhere but at the chains tying the man’s hands and feet. “You requested my presence.”  
  
“Yeah,” Busquets drawls.  
  
Xavi lays his Bible on the table and sits down. Busquets is watching him with an amused smirk. He doesn’t look like someone who only has hours to live.  
  
“Would you like to confess?” Xavi asks.  
  
Busquets laughs and it sounds like a dog’s bark. “I don’t feel like I have to confess things I was convicted of,” he says. “Even less when I don’t regret doing them.”  
  
“Then why did you want me to come?”  
  
“I have something to tell you,” Busquets says and leans as close as he can to Xavi, lowering his voice so that it’s almost a whisper. “Remember when everyone wanted to know where I hid the last body? That little boy I killed? I think I need to tell you that right now.”  
  
Xavi almost can’t hear him describing the place over the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing through his veins so fast that it deafens him. He knows that Busquets tried to bargain with the court, offered this information in exchange for not getting the death penalty. The judges were having nothing of it. The mother of the child fell on her knees in the court room, begged him to tell her so that she could bury her son. Busquets laughed in her face, same as he is now laughing in Xavi’s.  
  
“Why are you telling me that now?” Xavi asks quietly.  
  
Busquets grins. “Because you can’t tell anyone,” he says. “That’s the point. I get it off my chest. And I put it on yours. And I make your life miserable. It makes me feel better. Isn’t that the point of the confession?”  
  
“The point of the confession is to regret your sins,” Xavi says, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. “And I’m afraid that it isn’t your case.”  
  


* * *

  
Xavi has never thought that he would ever plead with someone like Busquets, but the next morning he does. He begs him for a permission to break the seal of the confessional, for a permission to reveal the place to the mother. Busquets doesn’t bother with answering him.  
  
Although he is tempted not to, Xavi holds up the cross. Busquets spits on it.  
  


* * *

  
When Andrés opens the door of his apartment, yellow light spills on the dark corridor and warmth caresses Xavi’s frozen face. The fear of tomorrow, of the consequences of what he’s just done, everything dissipates. Xavi looks at his friend for a while before speaking: “I did it. I told her. And it was the right thing to do.”  
  
Andrés nods and steps aside, inviting Xavi in.  



End file.
